Bird of prey
by Douche Worthington
Summary: A strange man with no recollection of his memories, but a curious propensity for violence and subterfuge, plies his trade in remnant. Main characters Archer and Kestrel. (There are no character selections for splinter cell, really?) occurs during cannon timeline. No pairings except for maybe Archer with himself. (Figuratively not literally)
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

At first there was darkness; a deep whirling void of unfathomable depth and incorrigible obscurity. The man felt nothing; not the idle pause of breath that might've left one wanting of precious air, nor connection to his own extremities.

He had not the capacity nor the means to hold discourse with the outside world, his consciousness set adrift at a loss. His inherent faculties however, seemed to lay abounding, untethered as it were to some mortal coil by which means he had spent his entire existence. Even so, he could make nothing of what was, or had been previously.

To be sure, it was something of an out of body experience, and if one were to believe the stories, what many a man or woman had oft to proclaim on occasion to near death experience once roused to consciousness once again.

There was however, and of especial interest to the man, a distinctive lacking of bright white light which may or may not have been, depending on your perspective, a "good thing".

It was instead, an utterance to pierce the void in likewise manner, heard, not felt nor seen, but curiously broken and unintelligible.

"...trel"

"Kes.."

It resounded, a glimmering echo in the void, and like a beacon, the man felt drawn to it. He reached out with his nothingness, and felt a tug.

Felt. For the first time.

He could feel something else too, faint at first, but growing in severity with every passing second. A prickling sensation. Warmth?

Not a sensation he had been expecting, but he could feel again.

He could feel.

Presently, the man opened his eyes; his lids did a dance as though unaccustomed to the action- his vision flooded just as soon, this time by some harsh bright light. He brought a hand to his face, noting after a second or two, and with much relief, the sun shining and casting its warmth upon him through immaculate glass; nothing supernatural about it in the slightest.

"Kestrel"

The man blinked. That utterance again, this time complete.

"You were saying?"

His eyes broke a stupor and snapped his gaze before him where the light, befallen at an angle through the narrow window, gave no illumination.

There, seated cross legged, was another man, judging by the voice of course, which was definitively masculine in nature, for nought but his cargos- this, in peculiar digital camo, could be seen. The rest of him, from that point onward, had faded into obscurity.

Untrusting of his own voice, the first man spoke at long last. "Saying what?". And was a bit surprised to find it come off a bit raspy and low, on instinct. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

The other man seemed to shrug, merely a rustle in the darkness.

"It seemed like you were about to say something, then you stopped."

This voice seemed a bit churlish to the first man. Familiarly churlish. Some forlorn emotion struck alight within him at the sound of it. Annoyance?, and something else perhaps that he couldn't quite put a word on.

He furrowed his brows in concentration.

"Archer", he said, unknowing of exactly where the word had come from. He had mouthed it several times before the word escaped his lips, but it seemed to hold no ulterior meaning to him other then its given denotation. Nevertheless, it continued to lay unforgiving at the very forefront of his consciousness as though it did.

"Kestrel", the other man repeated.

Churlish.

But insightful. Kestrel could put two and two together.

He leaned back now, and upon finding comfortable purchase upon a padded bench, deigned to trust his weight on it. His keen gaze did a swoop across the immediate surroundings in the meanwhile, and found nothing of great importance. Dark wooden furnishings predominated in some sort of small enclosed space- a cabin, but judging by the periodic bumps and shudders, he was on some sort of commute- on a train most likely. This, raising a hell of a lot of questions, but unfortunately no answers, jerked him an unsavory mood.

He shot his arm forward in a sudden burst of activity, catching the named Archer unaware and dragging him none too gently into the light, where his unruly brown hair and stubbled face of, at a guess, twenty to thirty years lay unhidden.

Kestrel, unbidden, his voice cold, spit out his inquiry.

"Where am I?"

"On a train", Archer snarked, entirely unintimidated by his actions.

"Who am I?"

Archer raised an eyebrow at that, confusion present in his features, but predominantly amusement.

"Is this a joke?"

"Speak. Now". his grip tightened menacingly.

"Or what, you're gonna kill me or something?"

Kestrel gave a pause, a sudden throbbing pain shot through his forehead. Idly, he put a hand to his upper lip where something wet seemed to dribble downwards in a trickle. This seemed to serve enough of a distraction for Archer to brush aside his other hand, and upon doing so, rub his shoulder irritably.

"You're not going senile on me are you chief?"

The question seemed to flit awkwardly about between a harsh silence, remaining utterly unheard by Kestrel who, after a bizarre bout of curiously close inspection of the palm of his left hand, stood with startling suddenness, whereupon he fumbled with the cabin door, evidently uncertain of the mechanism behind its operation, before sliding it backwards and stumbling into the narrow corridor beyond. There, in somewhat demure fashion, his left hand raised to his face could not withhold the downpour of a river scarlet, which seemed to ooze in some ungodly manner from the orifices between his fingers.

He spotted a restroom in the distance, made for it; the corridor thankfully devoid of passerby's who might've- given their presence, caused a shriek thence to a rowdy commotion upon seeing the man with crimson now running freely down his arm, and shut the door somewhat forcibly with his free hand.

This, as one would expect of any such likewise facility to be found on a form of public transportation, even sparsely furnished as it were, had forced him into a rather uncomfortable squeeze. Plus, it smelled like shit.

Kestrel, un-abiding by the average commuters convention gave not a care to the rather repulsive state of it, but a start upon seeing his own reflection in the cracked glass mirror. Surely, that was a strangers face leering back at him through small beady eyes- surely, but there was no one else but him. He took in its weathered and worn appearance, the tired creases and short brown hair, and- contrary to his expectations- the stupefying absence of flowing crimson macabre. Somewhat stricken by this fact, he brought his left hand close, gave it a meticulous inspection and noted with much amazement, the uncanny absence of sickly red- not a trace of it remained, only the fleshy pallor of his own hand gave his eyes diversion.

Dousing his face in the frigid water on tap, lent a sudden shudder to his form and an uncomfortable chill run through him. His bulky figure hunched over the porcelain sink, elbows coming to rest on its edge and he let out a low groan. So many questions, and he was not of such maudlin disposition as to leave them unanswered, but felt inexorably at a loss. Where to begin?

Just then, a sudden and violent lurch sent him careening forward, and his head smashing forcibly against the glass mirror. He let out a strange sounding swear on instinct, and rubbed his head in a placating manner.

Out of nowhere, a staticky voice. "I need you back here chief".

Archer's.

He tapped the unnoticed earpiece from which it had originated.

Another lurch shook the train.

Intrigued, he made his way back to the cabin, down the narrow corridor and past the multitudes of similarly bewildered passengers who had begun to stir a low ruckus. Somewhere, a child screamed.

Throwing open the door once again, he found Archer on the floor, his hands occupied with some sort of briefcase but shooting him a glance and a nod.

"Close the door".

"What was that?", Kestrel questioned.

"The go ahead for our operation. Close the door".

Kestrel did so.

Archer, seeing this, slid him another briefcase, this one identical to his own.

He opened it; his hands finding proper purchase on the object which resided within, and yanked it out. It was cold, harsh, metallic, and he knew its form well. This particular variation was predominantly white in hue, with streaks of red interspaced. He couldn't identify the exact make and model, but then again, he hadn't recognized his own name when it came to it.

"You remember how to use one of these right?"

Kestrel thumbed the safety of his submachine gun, uncertain of his situation, but entirely certain of his answer.

"Yes".


	2. Chapter 2

Authors note: so this chapter was originally intended to be much longer, but since i likely wont have the time to work on this fic at all in the next couple days, i just decided to release it.

If one were to ask- and of course there had been a great deal of questions regarding the incident afterwards, then it might've been of particular interest to the asker, that there had been seen, not one but two subjects of a rather dubious disposition aboard the line 43 passenger and freight that fateful day.

This, having been conveyed by a rather unwitting, and increasingly peeved bystander of no particular merit, had left a certain inspector Caldwell of Vale with that tidbit and unfortunately, not much else. The two subjects had, by the same account emerged from a private cabin, guns in hand- these definitely not of the legal variety- and adorned in concealing balaclavas. Their identities were thus a mystery and the commencements thereafter much the same (for the bystander had ducked into his own booth at the sight of them, as had every other like minded and law abiding citizen). It was, as far as the bystander could tell, a somewhat dull affair- "much unlike the movies?", (Caldwell had interjected on a whim, for he was rather partial to the old crime classics). The bystander gave him a strange look but confirmed that- yes it was quite unlike the movies. No shots had been heard; no explosives detonated, and no rousing cries or jeers raised.

Thence, having exhausted his usefulness to the long arm of the law, the bystander fell into a remarkable stillness. Any further inquiries made beyond that point were met by the ever obstinate "no officer", or the occasional "I dont know officer". Caldwell, having at that point, apparently found it in his heart to release the man from custody, bid him a good night (for he had been detained till nightfall), and his much heartfelt apologies for the inconvenience. "The kingdom of Vale", he had said, "thanks you for your cooperation".

To the bystanders merit, he had withheld from any sort of rebuttal until halfway out the door, whereupon he bared his ass rather spitefully, at the good inspector.

Caldwell could do nothing but shake his head in displeasure. "No one cares for justice these days unless it concerns them directly". A pity.

And to a select few whom it did concern directly, was held in even lesser regard. Namely, but not exclusively amongst this list was one Daniel Robert Sloane-Saurez (who was absolutely not in attendance of the 12 o'clock to Vale), otherwise known as Archer to the few who knew of him, John to the authorities (and for legal purposes), and a bit of an asshole to the greater majority.

"This should be an easy job", one subject of suspicion was reported to have said. "In, out, get the merchandise, no bullshit".

Kestrel, following close behind as he stalked down the corridor, said nothing, but frothed in mind over the decidedly dubious prospect he seemed to have found himself in. He was not, to the contrary of Archers belief, all too keen on mixing himself up in the mans intrigues, but for lack of a better option... had no option at all- not if he wanted answers to his most peculiar predicament that is. The predicament itself being thus: he with no memories, seemed to know a thing or two about Archer and vice versa. This in mind, the stoic man clutched his balls (figuratively not literally), and braced himself for what was sure to be- if the guns and masks were of any indication- one hell of a wild ride.

The duo reached the end of their passenger car, popped the rear entrance, and moved onto the next. Simple, and the corridors were always barren of passengers, who with sound logic and hardy survival instinct, had seen fit to observe the old saying, out of sight out of mind, thus allowing them free reign.

"We want to reach freight", Archer explained, "thats our objective".

Kestrel, who had taken to fiddling with his submachine gun had at first paid little attention. The ergonomics on the thing, he had decided relatively early on, were downright atrocious. It seemed to him more suitable for a bullpup design then anything, for its grip was positioned with extreme forwardness, but alas was not a bullpup and so its magazine clipped to the fore. These things in conjunction, had left him with a damnably awkward grip, and he had just about resigned himself to that fact when a sort of half flick in experimentation produced a convenient fore grip, formerly disguised as an under barrel.

Sadly, he had no time to appreciate the new found accessory, for in the next second was heard a shrill grate, and seen down the narrow corridor- the turn of the wheel on the door to which the adjacent car might be accessed. This, the security car, could only mean trouble.

From Archer, a sort of odd hiss was emitted. "I'd rather avoid open conflict here". His voice a whisper, but carried through his comm system came out audibly to Kestrel alone, for he had already ducked into a narrow crevice wherein the staff of line 43 had stowed a fire extinguisher. Kestrel, less fortunate, found himself in a rather intimate position with a potted plant.

It would've taken but a sideways glance, he knew. A mere fleeting twitch or spasm or odd distraction of the eye and they would've been found men- exposed as they were with nought but the faint dimming of light to cover them from sight. Thus, Archer had awaited with bated breath, not daring even the most minute of idle movements, even as he had grown a most confounded itch- these always seeming to come at the most inopportune time- but lay in total stillness, as the tramping of heavy footfalls drew close.

These as it turned out, belonging to a man just as heavy as his steps would imply. Seven foot tall easily, and his musculature like an ox- what little could be seen of it anyways, his form bundled under a heavy tan cloak but unable to conceal fully, his mountainous mass and the raw bulk of his sprouting straining neck atop which lay a heavyset face and magnificently square jaw.

A steady tremor underfoot grew in accordance with his coming approach that once passed, gradually quelled to a throb, and which the absence of- had marked his passing to those two hidden who had held their breaths.

"Phew, that weren't no security guard". Archer who had emerged now, gave his preliminary diagnosis. "Son of a bitch is probably a juicer", and after a moment of silence, "a hunter too". They, he explained, all seemed to have a thing for extravagant dress. "Damn I hate those guys".

From then, it was but a short walk to reach their first and only obstacle.

The security car, as Archer understood it, was quite a recent installment on the rail line 43 and had come to be, in light of the recent resurgence of white fang attacks, understood by the general populace as a necessity (despite the fact that most of them held a natural abhorrence for paying their taxes), which might've helped to explain its somewhat overbearing nature. Layers upon layers of reinforced steel, and a pass code locked blast door just as thick was kept under garrison by upwards of 8 guards at all times, as in accordance with the regulation, and who's job it was to protect the kingdoms valuable cargo. Sadly, that would also prove to be the things downfall, as Archer was kindly obliged to demonstrate. It was in fact, quite commonly known amongst the city states of Remnant that the Kingdom of Vale in particular was to put it lightly- not so much militarily inclined as were some of its counterparts, say perhaps, Atlas, for example. In perspective, the average Atlesian infantry man was often said to be payed twice the amount as its counter part from Vale, receive twice the amount of training, equipment twice as valuable, and sometimes, depending on who you asked, jokingly said to possess twice the length of a certain male-exclusive genital. In compensation, the kingdom of Vale would rely heavily on its hunters, (these coming from the prestigious beacon academy, were often said to be some of the finest), but who were themselves, unfortunately, not under the direct authority of the government.

It was therefor, somewhat of an inevitability that in consequence of his much incensing provocations (a relentless hammering on the blast door which must have stirred a horrendous echo in the interior, as well as several choice words about mothers) he would be met by a sadly under qualified, greatly under payed, and terribly disgruntled obese man wielding a baton.

The obese man, who was found to be surprisingly adept at catching objects with his face (morsels of food more often then not, but in this case an armor piercing bullet), dropped like a sack of potatoes- dead before he hit the ground.

Kestrel, looking on in morbid fascination noted how Archer, pushing his way past the dead mans corpse- had then moved with the brutal efficiency of a systematic killer, and lain a gout of withering fire upon the remaining garrison.

These men, horribly unprepared as they were and bunched conveniently around a game of poker in absence of alarm, stood no chance against Archers ironically- Atlesian made firearm. It, with a cyclic rate of 900 rounds per minute, and with a 45 round magazine capacity poured out the rounds in a stream. The Atlesians, who knew their guns well and knew what their operators wanted and had the technology to do so had ensured that high rate of fire to be sustainable for even the most decrepit of users. Therefor Archer, un-lacking in braun, and firing in a prolonged burst had not the bucking of recoil to throw his aim awry and as such the solid shot found each their marks with ease; tearing through flesh and sending the guards convulsing like in a deranged puppet show. Fine bloody mists exploding every which way, showered the walls and ceiling in a sanguine precipitation.

Dust rounds were great against Grimm of course, but against those opponents who could produce aura, Archer knew that good old solid shot of any sort was a necessity. A testament to this fact, the now dead ring of guards who lay slumping in their seats; all having been killed in the span of three seconds flat, and with barely a commotion. The submachine guns internalized suppressor did its job well, and for this reason the bystanders words had rung true. Not a single shot was heard.

Of course, this was not so great a consequence to a much esteemed and internationally acclaimed Hugo Validus, renowned hunter of the kingdom of Vacuo who had business in Vale, and had already possessed a rousing suspicion that something foul was amiss aboard the 12 o'clock to Vale. This conclusion strongly reinforced as he made his way forward to the locomotive, stopping only periodically to tap on a door or two, but each time receiving no answer. Oh, he knew they were in there all right, and it was clear something had spooked them. Hugo, who felt it was beneath his dignity to stoop so low as to plead for audience, snorted in disgust, bundled his heavy cloak about him and moved onwards.

It was of his personal opinion, as he was forced to duck yet again through a tight door way, that the architects and engineers of today's world had grown a most infuriating inclination for building small. This, by his nature was the only explanation his mind had offered; his towering stature completely disregarded.

But not it would seem, by others, who often found this feature to be his most defining aspect and which, as a relatively well known man, had placed a certain memorability in his appearance. Therefor it was not so much a surprise when the conductor, a portly man in a red uniform who recognized him immediately, gave him a most cordial greeting. And a bow. "Master Validus".

Hugo, regarding the man with a slight nod, was then noted as responding to him thus, in his slow but deliberate manner of speech. "Pray tell, what is the reason for this stoppage. I am a man of strict schedule, and my time is an important resource."

"Ah, of course, of course". The conductor withdrew a golden pocket watch and noted the time. "And I have a strict schedule to uphold as well, but we seem to have run into a most... bizarre complication- if you will forgive my ambiguousness sir, it is not I assure you, a deliberate quality."

"What manner of bizarre."

"Ah, that I feel", said the conductor as he made his way to the cockpit, "is better shown. I bid you follow."

Hugo Validus, upon reaching the cockpit and gazing outward as directed by the conductor had then raised a brow, somewhat perplexed.

"A man."

"Yes. A naked man. Dancing. And in the way of our locomotive I'm afraid."

"Have you attempted to remove him?"

"None of the lads are willing to go near him sir, they're afraid he's up to some sort of witchery". The conductor paused. "I have attempted to raise security but so far there has been no response."

"And yourself?".

A sheepish expression, the look of a guilty man. "Well you see err..."

"Never mind it"

"Of course sir my apologies."

Hugo snorted.

Then a silence, interrupted only by a low thrum. One of the engineers was the first to notice it.

"What is that sir?". He pointed. A speck in the sky growing larger.

The conductor, squinting his eyes, dismissed it. "A bird".

"Then that would be quite a large bird", said Hugo, who knew better. "And quite odd in its method of flight". And as the speck grew closer, descended lower and made an outrageously low swoop over the locomotive causing everyone save for Hugo (who looked on impassively) to duck frantically, "and quite similar in shape to a vtol condor."

The conductor, composing himself rapidly and dusting off his breeches, had at that point made a startling realization. "What markings did it bear!?"

"None sir", the same engineer reported.

"Get security on the line now!"

The engineer had reached for the radio, but a massive hand stopped him.

"I fear it is much to late for that". Hugo, with eyes closed and a contemptuous expression on his face continued. "You have been played. No doubt your security detail has already fallen victim to their operatives on board. Hence, the lack of response. This is no white fang attack. So, here is my advice to you. Do not attempt to run the engine. Detain that man", he said, gesturing to the naked man outside who was now making rather rude gestures at them with his middle fingers. "And once in the jurisdiction of your city state, deliver him to your authorities."

"And what about the boarders?"

Hugo, who had already turned to leave, called over his shoulder.

"I will handle them."


End file.
